Keep Ancient Lands, Your Storied Pomp! Cries She With Silent Lips.

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Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp! cries she
With silent lips. Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me...
-- Emma Lazarus, "The New Colossus"